


Once In

by autoschediastic



Category: The Unit
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Post S03 EP02 Pandemonium, Prison Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1653734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the scenarios they've got for shit like this, of course Mack's got to wing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once In

**Author's Note:**

> Like my obsession with The Unit, this fic is thanks to (and made so much more delicious by) Ponderosa. Didn't count on the Bob feels though, did you.

It's going on week two of Bob's unplanned leave in a shitty seven-by-seven when the lights go up half past the dead of night. By the time the gate at the end of the hall bangs open, he's rolled off the bunk into a crouch beside it, craning his neck to get a decent look through the bars. Sleep-rough catcalls ripple down the line.

“Shut it! _Callate!_ ” booms one of the guards. An inmate half a dozen cells down shouts back too rapid fire for Bob to catch. Eight days in here and he's heard twice that in accents and dialects. Throw in the smattering of English aimed his way in the yard, the plain brown mountains in the distance, and there's too many regions this place could be in.

“I think you two, you'll get along,” says another guard as he comes up on Bob's cell. No nametag, no badge, he wears a hat for rank and carries a few more toys on his belt. He tosses a grin Bob's way then whistles sharply, signalling the men behind him. “Boys like you, I know, you should stick together.”

A tight circle of three guards herd Mack close to the bars. There's blood smeared on his grey prison issues, more blood fresh on his face. His left eye is already starting to swell. A guard aims a rifle square at Bob's head as he slowly stands, hands carefully raised. He'd figured it wouldn't be too much longer, but that didn't mean he hadn't hoped.

“He don’t make no trouble like you. He's good,” says the guard to Mack as they muscle him inside, “probably won't stick you while you sleep. You be nice, maybe he'll even let you sleep in the bed, eh?”

Mack gives him a long look that tells him nothing he wants to hear. “Bet he's real sweet.”

The bars rattle shut, Mack's gaze lingering on him before he turns slowly around, offering his hands to be uncuffed. Once he's free, the first guard gives him a rough shove back. He stumbles, favouring his side, but keeps his eyes on the guards as they leave. Bob draws a breath and lets it slowly back out again, counting off the seconds before the gate clangs shut and the lights cut out with a fizzling snap.

“Should see the other guy,” Mack whispers quietly, his back still turned.

“Ain't interested,” Bob says, loud enough to carry, and takes quick stock of what the meagre light offers. Mack briefly touches his right side near the seventh and eighth ribs, then his trick shoulder. The longer the touch, the worse the injury. Not as bad as it could be, then.

With one last glance up to the cells lining the upper floor, Mack turns to lean against the bars. “Be a pal, throw me a pillow,” he says, then quietly mouths the word _no_.

Without a question to go with that answer, Bob's left guessing. He tries parroting out a flat, “No,” hoping Mack'll give him a little more to work with.

“Do you a solid later for it,” Mack offers, stepping closer.

Bob rubs at the stubble on his chin. Of all the scenarios they've got for shit like this, of course Mack's got to wing it. From the looks of Mack's clothes, he's been here longer than one night. Nobody's laid a hand on Bob since day one in the yard and despite what the guard claimed, he's got a hard time believing Mack did anything less. “Same solid that earned you that shiner, I bet. You make a run for it?”

Mack's laugh is low and rough. “Can't fault a man for trying.”

“You two keep yapping, them guards is gonna come back,” says Bob's neighbour to the left, a mouthy guy in his late thirties that goes by Chuy. Chatty guy, tatted up like he was army once upon a time too, and a goddamn pathological liar. “One of you shut the other up.”

“Just makin' friends,” says Bob.

“Seems like.” There's the creak of a bunk and then Chuy's voice from closer by. “Now I know your type. Hey, red, you a skinhead? Arizona here ain’t making no friends with those boys, but he fucks like ‘em. Ain’t that right, Arizona. Guards love throwing guys like you some white meat.”

“Hey, hey,” says Mack, hands up as he moves closer again, “not that kinda favour, fella. Place is full of 'em, y'know? Just me and you in here, figure I watch your back, you watch mine.” He waits a beat before giving his feet a quick shuffle on the concrete. “Yeah, you try it.”

Bob stares at him through the dim. Only a few ways that one will play out in a place like this, and most end with them separated. The block's gone too quiet. They've got an audience.

“You heard me,” Mack hisses, scraping hard at the floor with one foot. “Go for it.”

By hour two Bob had all the angles into his cell figured. Both back corners would've made for good cover except for the way the stairs cut the upper floors. He doubts the sliver of privacy afforded the latrine was in the architect's plans. Dead centre in the cell is compromised by the walkway around the second floor cells, and the creep with the pocket mirror near the end of the hallway likes to watch him sleep. There's nowhere to fake it. Even in the dark with a handful of minutes to case the joint, Mack's got to know.

It looks good when Mack fights back, lots of power behind it, but it only takes a few quick moves for him to end up chest to the wall breathing hard like he didn't aim to be right where he is. “Fuck you,” he grunts, pushing hard enough against the easy hold on the arm twisted behind his back that Bob's got to tighten his grip. “I ain't sucking your filthy dick.”

“Jesus,” Bob mutters, and gets his other hand on the back of Mack's neck, making a good show of grinding the bruised side of his face into rough stone. Might be a quick suck and blow is the easiest way out of this. Easy or not, Mack's still gonna have to go through with it. Relief that he's not the one stuck with spit or swallow sparks to shame when a foot tangles with his and Mack ends up on his knees in a fake takedown.

“Sounds like you about to get it,” Chuy singsongs.

Smacktalk is more Grey's forte. “Think he likes it,” crosses Bob's mind so he goes with it. Same as grinding his crotch into the side of Mack's face. Loner's the role he's set for himself in here. There aren’t a ton of skinheads, but there are enough that if the rest of the team is in here somewhere too, he’s got to keep avenues open. He’d thought that for sure Mack hadn’t been black-bagged at the border, but with that hope snuffed out, they’ll want to stick together--

“Don't think I trust those teeth,” Bob says, and Chuy barks a laugh. He twists a fist in Mack's shirt at the scruff of the neck and hauls him back to his feet. Both hands planted on the wall, Mack gives a shove off it at about half-strength, just enough to make it sound good when Bob shoves back and kicks his feet wide.

Mack goes still when Bob yanks the cheap elastic waist of his pants halfway down his legs. It reads enough like shock that the lack of a reaction fits when Bob spits and smears his crack wet. “Look at that,” Bob murmurs, buying some time to tug himself hard, “playing nice already.”

Cloth drags against rough concrete as Mack twists, his gaze swung low before lifting to meet Bob's. “I don't want no trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” Bob drawls, and answers the glance Mack darts at the cell bars with a nod.

While chances to spar with Mack have been few and far between, somewhere along the line they shared a teacher or a technique; they never lose contact as Mack busts out one last frenzied attempt at escape. He hits the bars chest-first loud and hard with Bob plastered to his back. A fresh wave of catcalls goes up as Bob cages Mack in, his hands on the bars for leverage and Mack's feet kicked together. The snap of his hips as he shoves his cock into the tight trap of Mack's thighs is good, but the howl that rips out of Mack sells it.

That howl's still in the rafters when Bob smacks a hand down on Mack's mouth. A pained groan leaks between his fingers as he draws back and shoves forward again, and that as much as the head of his cock hitting the softness of Mack's balls makes his jaw clench. Rough hairs prickle at skin gone hot and damp like Mack's breath where they're pressed together, but that's not enough to keep Mack slick. The drag turns gritty after a few careless thrusts. Busy with an eye to their audience, Bob sucks in a hissing breath as Mack's wet tongue probes at his fingers.

Bob says, “Now who's looking for a solid,” and curls his fingers in, not surprised exactly when Mack opens up and sucks, but not so sure he honestly expected it, either. He shoves close like he's gone in deep--Mack gives a rough grunt like he felt it, too--and puts his mouth to Mack's ear. The role Mack's given him doesn't make his tongue thick and clumsy the way he'd maybe like. “Should've let you choke on it. Still could, so how 'bout it? Gotta clean your shit off my dick.”

Mack bucks and twists and for sure would've thrown Bob off if he hadn't telegraphed his intent a good five seconds before. Bob hooks his thumb under the hinge of Mack's jaw to wedge it wide and says, “Try it again and your hole stays dryer than that wasteland out there. Get me?”

A shallow nod from Mack only reaches about half the inmates that need to see it. Pressing an arm solidly across Mack's shoulderblades to keep him pinned to the bars, Bob drags his fingers free, smears some spit messy over Mack's face. Not exactly what Mack slicked them up for, but it plays well. The downside is it gives Bob too long to think about where that spit was meant to go, and the weird twinge in his gut that his dick between Mack's legs doesn't strike him half as intimate as his fingers in the same place.

Bob brings his hand back to Mack's mouth. “You're gonna have to give that one another go.”

There's just the right length of pause before Mack's tongue drags over his fingers, soft and wet. His gut lurches along with the twitch of his cock. He huffs a laugh, because Mack is gonna give him hell for that one next time they hit the distillery, and figures he might as well try to head off some of that hard time right now. Groping under the baggy hem of Mack's shirt, spit already cooling on his skin, he wraps his hand tight around the base of Mack's cock. And stops.

“Fuck,” groans Mack.

“I'll be fucking damned,” Bob says, with real wonder. He drags his fist slowly up the rock-hard length of Mack's dick. Not just a little stiff, or edging close to thick like him, but hard. When the urge to give a squeeze hits, he goes with it, and the jolt that goes through Mack goes right through him too. The next words out of him are rough like they've been under the sheets for an hour. “Looks like you got me dancing to your tune after all.”

Mack's not sounding so steady either when he says, “Fuck you.”

“Think you mean fuck _you_.” Questions Bob's got no right to hear answered spring up one after the other, same as he's got no real right to be jerking a teammate off in the middle of a compromised mission. Still here he is, and the only real answer he's looking for is if it's him or the audience that's got Mack going.

Turns out he's strangely okay with it being a little bit of both. _Why_ isn't the next question that needs asking, and the one that does he's in no mood to mind. A hard shove of his hips gets Mack's pressed to the cell door. The angle's shit for fucking but makes it easy to stick Mack's cock out through the bars, let it graze cold metal as he gives it another few quick tugs. Snippets of suggestions from the peanut gallery make it through the heavy pound of his pulse in his head; he's got no time for those either.

Sure Mack's gonna stay right where he is, Bob eases up on his back and spits loud and dirty onto his own fingers. The crack of Mack's ass is hot, saliva mixing with sweat to turn soft skin slippery. He finds the tight pucker of Mack's asshole and pauses, scraping his lip with his teeth before he presses lightly, testing. Giving Mack an out if he's read this wrong. “Should make you ask me for it.”

Even in the dim, Mack's knuckles show white on the bars. The slow, warm seep of precome down the back of Bob's still hand plus Mack's feet scuffing the floor as his legs spread wide, breath hissing through his teeth, is a decent enough answer to most of those questions still kicking around Bob's skull.

Eyebrows high, Bob shrugs, says, “Close enough,” and sucks in a sharp breath of his own as Mack takes two fingers to the knuckle with a quiet grunt. Bob wouldn't say he's a stranger exactly to a little back door action, but there's giving an occasional little rub and a lick and sneaking in a bit of pinky, and then there's Mack's hole clamping down tight like maybe they're both thinking foreplay's for the wife.

But as easy as Mack's taking a steady slow fingering, chafe isn't a good time Bob's ready to sign either of them up for. He leans back and spits a few times more, aiming first for the stretch of Mack's hole around his knuckles and then his own cock, nice and hard now. When he pulls his fingers free, Mack makes a strange sort of shallow sound Bob's never heard form him before, and for just a second or two the anticipatory thrill take over: he pushes his dick into Mack not nearly as slow or careful as he should, and this time all Mack gives up is a groan.

Bob's got intentions about aiming for a little more consideration on the second pass. He covers up the time he gives Mack to get ready with a careless, “Got you warmed up now, huh?” If Mack's got something he wants to say, it gets fucked right out of him as Bob bottoms out. There Bob's got to pause again, relish the tight clench of Mack's body. His hands find the sharp cut of Mack's hips and he grabs on tight, holds Mack steady as he draws back and then hauls Mack onto his cock, and all Mack does it give up another choked groan. Sweat builds up fast where the meat of Mack's ass is flush to his groin, makes his hold slip. Another couple good fucks gets Mack up against the bars again.

If somebody's got the balls later to ask Bob why he thinks, “Just fuckin' figures. Aiming all this time for me to stick it in you,” is the thing to say here, he's sure he'll have no answer for them. Why he even let it get this far falls into the same category, same as why he gives in to the urge to rub a thumb around Mack's stretched rim, why he imagines when he pulls back what the harsh drag of Mack's asshole over his dick would look like without the shadows in the way. “ _Fuck_.”

Mack stumbles as Bob hauls him off the bars. He gets his footing back fast, head low between his outstretched arms and still gripping tight to metal. When a moment goes by and Bob hasn't fucked back into him, he twists around halfway. “You done already?”

“Nah.” Bundling up the hem of his shirt in one hand, Bob swipes at his face with it before yanking it off. A shift of his hips while he's at it gets his cock riding Mack's crack, and then a bit more spit eases the way as he puts just the head inside Mack, fucks him nice and shallow and waits for whatever's winding Mack up tight to peak before he goes deep. Long and slow instead of quick and hard this time, because he wants to hear the difference in Mack's voice.

Finding out Mack sounds the same either way doesn't factor much; Bob switches it up as the urge hits, dragging this out a hell of a lot longer than there's any need but he can't quite figure why stop now. Mack's losing louder and louder snatches of noise, some the short, sharp ones Bob's used to hearing on mission downtime, others deeper like the one he let out when this turned real.

Only when Mack nearly loses his footing for the second time does Bob notice he's down to one hand braced on the bars. Bob slows to watch the pretty damn frantic way Mack's tugging on his cock, and then he's the one firming up his stance as Mack shoves back. For a long minute Bob's caught somewhere between what the hell his next move should be and dwelling on the notion that Mack quit acting about the time his pants came down. Mack tensing up like he's close jolts Bob out of it enough he goes for a reach-around, switching instead to a tight grip on Mack's wrist and stopping them both short. Mack grunts a low curse. Then another when he can't break free enough to get going again.

Bob wipes the sweat gathered on his upper lip off on his shoulder. Mack's cock is _wet_. Wet like Bob either missed him working up the spit for it, or like his dick's been drooling all over the place this whole time.

Giving Mack's wrist a warning squeeze, Bob says, “Bitches come last,” and smacks both hands to Mack's hips to make sure he doesn't end up on his knees when Bob picks up where he left off, hard and fast like all he's looking for is getting a real howl echoing off the concrete.

It only takes until Mack's managed to brace his shoulder against the bars before he's jacking it again, just as hard and as fast as the pounding he's taking. Bob grits his teeth against the shout clogging up his own chest and lets loose on Mack instead. He grinds Mack down on his dick, driving it as deep as he can get before he shoots. A couple fucks more gets Mack even slicker, clamping down so tight that Bob's close to the one howling as one long pull drags his dick free. Mack's loose enough that sticking the head back in to fuck his rim while he frantically jerks off works even with Bob going slowly soft.

One thing out of all of this that Bob's for sure not interested in knowing is what makes him stop entirely and step back a handful of seconds before Mack comes. Without a steadying hold Mack slumps hard against the cell door, rattling its hinges. His groans are quiet and shameless, his breathing harsh as he works his cock, letting spunk splatter the bars and hit the concrete. He's down on one knee by the time he's done, hunched over with a hand splayed close to the spotty wet shine on the floor.

Ignoring the unsteadiness in his legs, Bob walks over to the latrine for a handful of scratchy paper to clean off his cock. He balls it up and throws it in the pot to dump in the morning. Mack hasn't moved except to drop his other knee down. His back moves with each rough inhale.

“Here.” Bob snags the pillow of the bunk and gives it a toss. “That solid you wanted.”

The pillow hits Mack's thigh. He slaps a hand on it and grunts, head still down. The part of Bob that wants to go over there and make Mack look at him isn't the same part that's cataloguing which of Mack's hurts just got worse. He drags the sagging waistband of his pants back up over his cock before settling on the edge of the bunk, gaze still on Mack. Slowly, the hushed calls from the other inmates catch his attention, mostly commentary on his performance and suggestions for next time, along with a few choice ones aimed at Mack. If Mack even hears them, Bob can't tell. Another handful of long minutes passes before Mack tugs his own clothes to rights and slowly moves to prop himself up against the wall beside the bars, pillow crammed against the small of his back. Arms folded across his chest, chin tucked down, he looks the same as he has on a dozen missions before.

Swinging his legs up onto the bunk, Bob settles back with an arm tucked beneath his head. He figures he's gonna be stuck a long while chewing on the fact that Mack's over there with come drying in the crack of his ass.

Instead, all he does is wonder if Mack'll take it just as easy if he goes over there before sunup looking for round two.

*

Yard time comes once a week. As far as Bob can tell, the blocks are on a shifting rotation; every time he's out here done blinking back tears from the searing sunlight, he finds new faces alongside familiar ones. From his limited exposure to the complex, he can't tell how big it is yet, but he's figuring on a it housing a good couple hundred at least. The yard's not so big that the fifty or so heads let out to graze have the space to do much more than stretch their legs.

Seems Mack's been in here long enough to know the drill. Once they clear the shuffling line he falls into step about half a dozen feet behind Bob's right shoulder. Bob makes for the sliver of shade by the wall he claimed his first trip out here and comes up short as the guy sat on the edge of a half-rotted bench swings up into his path.

All the same questions that went through his head last night when Mack showed up outside his cell come back around. It's clear Grey's in better shape than Mack, but if that means he's been in here longer or not Bob doesn't know. Though circumstances could be better, he's a damn good sight.

“You got balls for a little guy,” Bob says, and aims a glance Mack's way. Mack nods once, a quick jerk; he knew Grey was in here with them. Would’ve been nice if he’d gotten around to sharing that information before now. Could be Bob should've fucking asked.

“So I been told.” Grey takes his time sizing them up one after the other. He's less than happy when he's done. “I heard about you two.”

The look in his eyes gets Bob's back up for no good reason. “Don't think you're so special there. Half the block heard him.”

“Listen up,” Grey says, same as if Bob hadn't spoken at all. They've already got the attention of a handful of inmates, and when Grey steps in close, they get a few dozen more gazes swinging their way. Grey pitches his voice low. “Watch it with him.”

“Yeah,” Bob drawls, “think I can handle it.”

Grey says, “No,” flat and even, letting it hang in the air a long minute before he goes on. “You want to handle something, you gotta know what it is you're handling. And I don't think you do.”

“Look,” Bob says, keeping a careful eye on the distance between them and the nearest other guy, on how much he can say and how he can say it, “he knew. Set himself up for it. All I did was follow through.”

Quietly, Grey says, “Not gonna be in here forever,” like he thinks it's something Bob needs to hear. But while his voice might have gone soft, that look in his eyes hasn't.

Bob sucks in an irritated breath. “If you got something else you think needs saying--”

“Already said it.” Grey steps aside. “The thing you gotta remember though,” he adds as Bob's walking by, “is who's fresh off the boat and who ain't.”

Bob can't help another glance at Mack trailing behind him like a dog. The bruises are uglier in the sunlight. The limp that hadn’t been there yesterday shouldn’t be there at all. Out of all the questions he didn't ask himself last night, all the answers he's not sure he wants to know, there's really only one that matters.

_What if they don't get out._


End file.
